


Earthquakes and Lightning

by nirejseki



Series: Bad Moon Rising [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Barry is a kinky kinky superhero, Barry lives in denial, Explicit Sexual Content, Humilation Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Voyeurism, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: So it looks like Leonard Snart and Mick Rory, Central City supervillains (and one a werewolf, too), have made some...interestingchanges in their relationship with each other. They're not just partners anymore; they're mates. Or, as wolves put it, pack.Barry's a little curious about it.He's definitely notjealousor anything.





	Earthquakes and Lightning

Barry's just curious, okay?

He's certainly not _jealous_ or anything, the way Caitlin likes to tease.

Certainly not.

That'd be absurd.

They’re _supervillains_. What does he have to be jealous about? 

He's just -

Curious.

Snart's been different lately. That's all. 

Ever since that evil sorceress.

See, Snart might be a supervillain, but he and Barry, they had a good arrangement going. After a couple of clashes, they’d agreed that there were some things that are just too much of a threat to the city for either of them to appreciate, and that meant that sometimes Snart and Rory would come by to help out Team Flash with the bad guy of the week. And when they were done, they’d meet up in Saints and Sinners, Snart’s favorite bar, a day later and break down what’d gone right and wrong in the battle. Snart insisted on it, supposedly to help them work out how best to work together without stepping on each other’s toes, but honestly Barry just thinks Snart just likes recreating the battle and talking about how they kicked ass. 

This time, though, things had gone – differently. 

For one thing, Snart had skipped the usual post-team-meet-up and let Rory reschedule it for him, which – if you knew anything about how much of a control freak Snart could be – was a bit weird. Barry hadn’t thought much of it, because if there’s anyone Snart will let do things for him, it’s definitely Rory. 

And then Barry had had to reschedule the meet-up again, because of Grodd, and so it’d been a solid few days before they finally had a chance to actually meet.

And when they had –

Things were different.

Snart’d been sitting there in his favorite booth at Saints and Sinners, Rory at the bar ordering drinks, same as always. Except it _wasn’t_ the same, not _really_.

There was something different.

Something different in the quality of Snart's smirk, more comfortable and relaxed than Barry's ever known him to be. 

Something different in the way that Rory comes to stand by his side without a word when Barry walks in. 

Something different in the way that Rory's insane moon-fueled fury has been tamed, the wolf and the man’s eternal struggle for self-control suddenly stopped, finished, and replaced with the surety and security that comes from _belonging_.

Now, Barry's not stupid. 

He knows all about wolves, even new wolves like Rory. He knows very well what's happened, that Snart and Rory have made the shift from being partners to being pack, and probably mates alongside it - _definitely_ mates alongside it, to judge by the hickies all up Snart's neck and the smugness of his smirk, the way he shifts in his chair like it's just the littlest bit uncomfortable, the way his legs are splayed open and he's slouching so as to barely conceal the fact that he's walking funny. Conceal, that’s a laugh; Snart’s _displaying_ it, that pretense of concealment all but a neon sign saying ‘look to see’. And it’s not just that. It’s the way Rory’s centered on him at all times, sight and sound and scent all focused on Snart; the way Rory’s mouth quirks upwards in pleasure every time Snart shifts a little, displaying for all the world to see what the two of them have been up to. 

So it’s not like it’s a mystery or anything. Barry knows what happened. 

Barry's just _curious_ , that's all.

After all, it’s new, isn’t it, and it’s Barry’s job to keep up with what’s new with his allies. 

The Speed Force roils inside of him, whispering, and Barry calls upon it like an old friend. With that power inside of him, Barry looks at Snart and Rory with older eyes than he was born with and he can see all the little details that human eyes would have missed. He can see the binding of pack between them, a magical bond as strong as any. He can see the pledges of loyalty that have already been made to them in honor of their strength; he can even see the offers to join them that are not yet accepted, that are still being considered, a growing pack of wolves and non-wovles forming a magical web of connections that other supernaturals will be wise to fear. The pack that’s being nurtured here will be a strong one, he can see that, too; he can see the strength of it, the power, Snart’s intensity paired with Rory’s fierceness. Barry can even see the jealousy and envy radiating off the others standing in the bar, more of them than usual, drawn to see the new pack; he can see the way they stare at Snart, stare at Rory, he can _see_ their desire to have what these two have formed, the others’ desire to take it away nearly as strong as their desire to give in and belong. 

Technically, they're still in the competition phase, Snart and Rory are, with Snart nominally available to other wolves - and damn attractive to them too, Barry's certain, with his indomitable willpower, his innate strength, his insight and cleverness and the way he moves through the world, slow as an oncoming ice age but just unstoppable - but any idiot would be able to see that nothing and nobody will split these two up.

Snart owns Rory every bit as much as Rory owns Snart, and both of them savagely, viciously rejoicing in that ownership, that territoriality, that sense of belonging, of having fit in just the right puzzle piece to make everything make sense. 

They fit together better than most established packs.

Yeah, this pack is going to be a powerhouse, Barry has no doubt. It's going to upturn Central City's established status quo. They could take over the whole place if they want to – and even if they don’t, they might anyway, just by sheer overwhelming charisma. 

Barry's young enough to have never seen a new pack forming with his own eyes, instead of the genetic memory that the Speed Force offers him; it's fascinating, really, the way the magic wraps around them, inside and out, the supernatural power flowing between them like an open channel. The magic rebounds upon itself, traveling from one to the other, getting stronger every time, and they were already damn strong to start with even without the magic.

Barry wonders if Snart knows about the changes he'll go through, the physical ones and the magical ones, the changes - far more subtle than a full lycanthropic shift, of course, and nothing like what a bite would do to him - that will make him a true mate to the wolf he's chosen to partner. 

Barry wonders if Snart thought those changes were a plus, when he made his decision, or if he didn't think of them at all - if he just gave everything of himself to his partner, body, heart, mind and soul, without asking a single question –

Barry wonders –

Damnit. Barry's not just curious. 

He _is_ jealous. 

Not of Snart, not of Rory, but of _both_ of them. He’s jealous, yes, he’s _madly_ jealous, _ravenously_ jealous. Jealous of them for having that connection with each other, a connection that is so much more than just familiarity with each other, so much more than just fitting in with each other, so much more of everything. 

He’s jealous of that devouring encompassing hunger they have for each other, that overwhelming obsession that each must have with the other, as uncontrollable as an onrushing storm. Anything less than that wouldn't have made them pack. Anything less than that endless commitment wouldn't have made them mates. 

It's not like the vampires, who can select a fledgling at will but at great personal cost. Vampires can make mistakes in the fledging process, and wolves can make the same mistake with their bites, but any wolf that chose a mate who was less than fully committed, less than fully obsessed, wouldn't get very far in forming their own pack. If the feeling wasn’t mutual, if the feeling wasn’t there, the chosen individual would be swallowed up by the lycanthropy, becoming a wolf in turn, subject to the same instincts, the same pull as their maker - the pull of the moon, of the pack - and the two of them would be forced to seek out another pack to sate their needs. An established pack, most likely; one that already knew what it was about but which would put a price on entry that the wolves would have no choice but to pay.

Not Snart and Rory, though. 

They're everything to each other. _Everything_. Fight and fury, love and care, everything; the two of them are everything in the world the other needs, and they know it, too. It's that certainty, that bedrock foundation, that makes them pack. It’s what makes them capable of offering that certainty to others, inviting other wolves to rely upon that strength, of bearing new wolves themselves, of being the center of the intense magical hurricane that is a werewolf pack.

Okay, yes, Barry's jealous. 

You _bet_ he's jealous. 

It’s not just that he wants one, wants the other, though he kind of does since they’re beautiful, both to his magical vision and to his regular one. It’s not just that. 

He’s jealous of the _connection_ they have. 

Lightning spirits like Barry live lonely lives. 

They're territorial, for one thing, but not in the way wolves are, where it's all about having a home to show off and defend, a den to rest their heads in, a safe spot from the world that must be defended. No, lightning spirits aren’t nearly as domestic as that – they draw their magic from the lightning, cold and harsh and utterly alien to life the way that mammals understand it, and the lightning that gives them their powers is the same thing that shapes their personality.

Unlike wolves, who guard their home with love, lightning spirits are happy enough to share their home with other supernaturals. They’re only territorial against other lightning spirits. 

Lightning spirits _hate_ each other.

Far too similar to ever like each other, it's as if they're magnetized against each other: two positives against each another or two negatives. They’re always repulsed by each other. They can never be together.

Eobard came from the future: he’d been obsessed with Barry, mad for him, for his legend, for his self. Learning the stories about Barry hadn’t been enough for him – he needed more. He wanted to befriend Barry, to call him his own; he wanted to _be_ Barry. By sheer force of fanatical will and brilliance, he forced a transformation, pulled the force of the lightning within himself, becoming a speedster just like Barry so that he could run back through time itself and meet his hero.

It was only when they met in person that Eobard understood the folly of what he’d done.

By becoming a lightning spirit, he’d guaranteed that he could never make Barry his, that they would never be friends, that they would _never_ be anything more than the most pitiless of enemies.

Eobard denied it, tried to deny it; he’d dubbed himself Reverse-Flash, trying by force of that terrible will to make himself the negative to Barry's positive. He’d thought that he could bind them together that way, make them enemies, yes, but the finest of enemies – the type of enemy that was less an enemy than an opposite, drawn so close together by the pull of magnetism between them, that they were sealed together forever in a grasp so close that nothing could ever pull them apart – but that's not how it works. 

It's never how it works.

Lightning spirits aren't meant for the company of their own kind.

Barry can barely tolerate Wally, who he loves like his own brother if he had had one, and even then it's only because Wally's so young, so tender, a newborn fledge; it's Barry's job to help him take those first few stumbling steps into a world that moves too slow for them. The role that for Barry should have been Jay Garrick's, but that Eobard stole for himself, changing history to make himself Barry's mentor instead in the vain hope that he could deny what was the truth. He hoped to turn that initial closeness, that permissive first few steps, into something more permanent. 

And if it didn’t work, either the mentorship and friendship that Eobard lusted for, or the epic rivalry and mutual hatred that he wished for, Eobard was left only with the hope that one day he could finally kill Barry and at last rest from his terrible obsession. 

Barry killed Eobard instead, at the end. At terrible cost, it is true, but that was always how it was going to end. 

Barry’s greatest secret, beyond all others, is how glad he was when Eobard died. Oh, Eobard had made him his enemy, killed his family and hurt his friends, and there was no lie and no secret about Barry’s pleasure in eliminating him for that reason; his friends would understand that joy, even if they secretly mourned the loss of the mentor they had once trusted. 

But it wasn’t just that. 

The relief, the sheer overwhelming relief, that he felt when Eobard was dead and gone, the feeling that Central City was Barry's and Barry's alone, no other lightning spirit was here in this place – it was the sweetest feeling of Barry's life.

Alone, alone at last!

It was better than birthdays, better than Christmas, better than first kisses, even better than earning his father's release from prison, and that’s why it’s a secret. Barry can’t tell everyone he loves that he would’ve traded all of them, all of their lives that he values so very highly, for the unmatchable high of knowing that his beloved Central City belongs to him and him alone. 

Lightning spirits are meant for lonely lives. 

Barry and Wally look at each through the corner of their eyes, sometimes, guilty glances, guilty because they know their time together is coming to an end - guilty because they can't bring themselves to tell Joe and Iris, who are so happy that they have each other.

Guilty because one of them will have to leave, or else one of them will have to die.

Probably at the other's hand.

Sometime soon, that buffer that lets Barry teach instead of oppose will wear off. Sometime soon, Wally and Jesse will stop making excuses why one of them has to live in a different universe and admit that their romance died the moment the lightning struck them. Sometime soon, Barry and Wally will be goaded into a terrible fight - speedster against speedster, lightning against lightning - and neither is sure what will hurt worse, their fists on each other's bodies or the effect of the inevitable betrayal on each other's souls.

Wally's been talking about going to Keystone University for his graduate studies. 

Barry sincerely hopes that that'll be far enough away. 

Iris doesn't know, of course. 

Oh, Iris..!

Barry loves her so; the very first of his anchors, the strongest, the one who helps keep him grounded - and lightning spirits need people like that, anchors, people who keep them grounded. 

People who are worth slowing down for. 

God, if Barry could only give himself to Iris the way Snart gave himself to Rory, a perfect partnership, a pack, his life would be complete.

But lightning spirits lead lonely lives.

The Speed Force whispers from within Barry's bones, the genetic memory of all speedsters, the thunderstorm from which all lightning spirits are born, and Barry knows that his kind are different from the others. 

He's no vampire, spreading his kind by bite; no selkie, to mate and bear young born with the caul that marks their heritage; no werewolf, that flexible species that can do either.

Lightning spirits birth themselves. 

One day in the future, in the far future, when all of Barry's anchors are gone while he remains as young as the day he met them, he will fly free from this plane. He will run so fast that he will write with his body that most fundamental of Einstein's equations, turning the matter of his cells into energy, pure energy, the speed of light turning what was once a man into nothing more than a single spark, and he will travel through time as a bolt of lightning -

And that day, he will give the fullness of himself, not to another person, no, but to himself, pouring the full power of the Speed Force into the child he once was, becoming the strike of lightning from the sky that made him whole. 

Time has always been the plaything of speedsters.

There was never any question of what Barry would become, of course; he heard the whisper of the Speed Force in his bones since he emerged from his mother's womb. He was always destined for that final meeting, that becoming, and nothing would have changed it. But for those first few precious years, he was very nearly human, slow and steady like the rest of them, able to make friends like the rest of them, and he didn't actually incarnate in his true form until that lightning came for him out of the sky.

Earlier than it ought have, he now knows, hurried along by Eobard's impatience and the Accelerator explosion that summoned forth the supernatural like a beacon in precisely the way it was specially designed to do.

Barry remembers being so frustrated as a child, running and running and running and never being fast enough to match his spirit. He remembers the secret shame he felt, because the first time he moved fast enough to satisfy that hunger in his soul was the moment his future self rescued him from Eobard's attacks, the night his mother died.

Barry has always been who he is, and will always be, and he will never have what Snart and Rory have.

Not with Iris, who's engaged to Eddie but who loves Barry still; not with Eddie, who grew through Iris' love to see Barry as more than just a friend or rival; not with Cisco or Caitlin, who stand by his side through thick and thin; not with Felicity, who likes him well enough but who loves an archer of particular ill luck; not with any of the supernaturals he's met since the Accelerator pulled them out of the darkness. 

Eddie won't have children, lest Eobard return; they have all agreed upon that, even though Barry knows that their best intentions will likely go awry in ways they will never know of because the Speed Force will have all of its children whether they want it or not. Eddie and Iris are still determined to have children, though, and they're considering asking Barry for his assistance one day in the future, even knowing what little they know about his powers. 

They haven’t asked him yet, they may not have even spoken of it to each other yet, but Barry already knows, because the Speed Force within his bones is already rejoicing in the knowledge that his children will be speedsters one day. 

Not _because_ of Barry, not really, since there's no genetic aspect to lightning spirits, but because the Speed Force would have it so. 

Barry's not sure, yet, if he'll agree to the plan. The Speed Force can only control Barry's birth and death; it can't control his actions. He’s a speedster, after all; he plays with time – time does not play with him.

He does love Iris and Eddie, though. If they ask, if he does say yes, he'll warn them first. 

God, he's _so jealous_ of Snart and Rory.

He wants what they have. 

He wants the way Snart relaxes when Rory puts a hand on his shoulder, offering safety and security without a word. He wants the way Rory looks at Snart, love as strong as fire and twice as consuming. 

Doesn't hurt that they're both _ridiculously_ attractive.

The first day he saw them and it clicked in his head, what they've been doing, the languid glow Snart had, the faintest hint of sex in the air, Rory practically puffed up with pride - fuck, Barry'd gone as red as a tomato. Redder. He'd gone hot all over, hard as a goddamn rock under the table, and he'd started spluttering and babbling like an idiot.

Rory inhaled, a deep breath, and smirked, staring right at Barry, and Barry was abruptly reminded of how keen werewolf sense are, how sharp, how good at identifying specific scents, specific _emotions_ that come through those scents, and Barry’s face went even hotter with humiliation that somehow still only made his cock harder.

Rory’s smirk burned in Barry’s mind’s eye even as he forced his eyes down to the tabletop in a valiant but unsuccessful effort for calm, his hands knotted into fists in the booth next to him. Naturally, that’s when Rory slid into the booth next to Snart and, when Barry looked up, looped an easy arm over Snart's shoulders. A claiming arm.

A 'hell yeah I know you want this, but this is mine and you can't do shit all about it' arm.

Snart let him do it, too.

Barry straight up forgot just about everything he'd been saying or planning on saying. 

Snart took pity on him and kept talking, but Rory just stared right at him the whole time with that smirk curving his lips.

Barry _suffered_ , but oh, what wonderful suffering. 

It’s all the worse because they’re both so gorgeous. 

There’s Snart, with those sharp-as-glass eyes and those _cheekbones_ , that expressive face, the curve of his jaw, the lines of his body, but even more than that the brightness of his mind, the quickness of his cleverness and wit - magicless, human, and still able enough to challenge a lightning spirit in full dominion over his own city. There’s not a single supernatural in the city that doesn’t want him, and Barry’s no exception. 

But then there’s Rory, too; big and burly and strong, all muscle and sinew and scar, as tall as Barry even when he was only a human, taller still as a wolf, and twice as broad either way, wearing those goddamn suspenders like he's taken a step out of those fireman catalogs that Barry totally didn't hoard in his room as a confused but _definitely_ bisexual teenager. He has an understated intelligence to him, understated not because he’s not cunning and sharp and skillful but because he stands purposefully in Snart’s shadow, letting his silver-tongued partner take the spotlight as he works behinds the scenes. There was more than one supernatural in Central City that sorely regretted letting some asshole wolf on a rampage bite him instead of bringing him into their own nests. 

As Barry said, they’re _gorgeous_.

What’s worse, Barry's brain works on overdrive, ever since the Speed Force, and ever since he saw them in Saints and Sinners, not just together but _together_ , it's been a non-stop flood of images of the two of them.

Of the two of them - _together_.

Snart, his eyes hooded and dark with lust, pressed up close against Rory, his sinful voice whispering in his ear. 

Rory, panting and wild, slick with sweat, muscles clenching with effort, his heavy form moving steadily as he covers Snart’s body with his own. 

Their hands, pressed together. Snart’s long clever fingers intertwined with Rory’s, or maybe gliding over skin with that characteristic little flicker of movement, the pickpocket’s practiced roll of the knuckle – and then Rory’s back arching in reaction to the sensation, muscles tensing and standing out. Snart following that line of muscle with his tongue. 

Their bodies, moving together in that delicious synchronization that Barry’s already seen them do. 

Snart enclosed by Rory’s heavy frame, made to look small only by comparison, his jeans pulled down to his knees, his modesty preserved by Rory’s body, the only sign of any action in the sweat dripping from his face, the flick of his eyes, vacant with lust, the way his jaw hangs loose and his breath coming hard, his fingers clenching the ground beneath him; that characteristic cool shattered as he gives in. 

Rory above him, body clenching, a work of art in motion, a thickset Grecian statute with power of the beast within him; his head lolling back, his eyes alight with triumph, his teeth bared as warning to the world –

Barry can see it the other way, too: Snart above Rory; the larger man yielding himself, hairy legs spread as Snart kneels between them, pushes them up to his shoulders, his lips pulled back into a smirk that fades into concentration, all that brilliant mind focused on the body beneath him. Rory gasping, swallowing, his neck moving with the movement, frozen in place, yielding but never submitting.

The two of them pressed up close, some tight place, some corner, rutting against each other, mad about it, hands everywhere, bodies close, breaths coming fast.

Barry can’t stop thinking about it.

Barry’s going to lose his _mind_.

The Speed Force isn’t helping, either; that wonderful, terrible genetic memory that hisses in the back of Barry’s bubbling brain and gives him tips and tricks and all sorts of knowledge that he was born to but never experienced himself. It offers him flashes of memories from lives lived long before his own birth – wolves and their mates, in bygone eras, stories and legends and _images_.

God, the _images_. 

Wolves tearing at each other’s throats to show off to their mates, monstrous and proud. Their mates standing tall, smiles and smirks curving their lips, watching with pleasure, with pride, sneering at anyone who would dare even think to encroach upon them, glorying in the violence and the blood before them. Wolves laughing, teeth shining in the light, their hands moving over their mates, settling on a swollen stomach – the finest wolves of the next generation of the pack. Those were always the finest of wolves, the ones not bitten but born to proper mates: those wer the leaders, the visionaries, the wonders who could change the world at their whim.

Wolves and their mates, together, unashamed. 

Fucking in the streets, proudly displayed, laughing as others fled before them or knelt down in worship; retreating to the cave and caverns during the long, hot mating seasons, howls heard through the forests, through the streets, and even through the air, overheard by the lightning spirits of the past as they danced above the endless green waves of the woods. 

Wolves in their human shapes, necks arched, heads lashing from side to side, human hands stroking tender flesh, blunt teeth bared with glee. Wolves, half-shifted, their teeth long and sharp, their claws curved, muscles bulging full and ripe with the change, forms stretched large, eyes yellow; their mates beneath them, rising up against them, no less equal for the difference in form. Wolves in full fur mounting mates, supple pink flesh hidden beneath fur, moaning and grunting and gasping and –

Barry wakes at night grinding into a pillow unconsciously shoved between his legs, hips moving, thrusting, flailing mindlessly until he has to go wash his sheets in the middle of the night. 

Again.

Superspeed does not make the laundry dry noticeably faster. 

Barry doesn’t know if he wants them, or if he wants to be them, or if he just wants to be _between_ them. 

All of the above, maybe?

Whatever it is, Barry wants it so bad it hurts. 

Maybe that’s why.

Maybe that’s why he follows them. First with his eyes, Snart walking through the streets with his head held high and a smirk on his lips, confident in his ability to repel all comers; Rory swaggering home to his mate, knuckles bloody and shoulders straight. 

Then in person.

Not too much! He’s not being _creepy_ or anything. Honest! Barry knows his understanding of personal boundaries got – less – after the lightning struck him, when the wisdom of a thousand speedsters before and after settled into his bones, obsessive creeps the whole lot of them, but he’s pretty sure he’s still on the right side of the line away from stalker. 

Mostly sure, anyway.

It’s just, you know, sometimes. Not too often. Once in a while, when he’s done with his rounds, he turns off the radios that lead him back to Cisco and Caitlin and he takes an extra spin around the city.

And, well, if those spins happen to take him down to Saint and Sinners, up through a web of safehouses, over that place on Birch that they’re increasingly less subtle about reconstructing as a home, places that they haunt with their steps, places they’ve put their name on and claimed as their own, well – it’s really not that weird. 

It’s _not_.

It’s just, you know. Careful patrolling.

Besides, if he finds them and it turns out they’re not doing anything criminal, well, then he leaves, and there’s no harm, no foul, right? 

That’s the way it goes most of the time. It’s pretty hard to commit crimes during the competition season, Barry guesses, what with the werewolves fighting over a chance to get a glimpse of Snart and him rejecting each and every one of them with a scoff and a scornful laugh, Rory fighting every day in his new mate’s honor with smirks curling on both their faces. 

And that’s what Barry’s expecting to find, one evening late at night, when he’s shut off his radio and Cisco’s gone home, when Barry’s taking an extra round or two through the slums, thinking mostly about what he wants for dinner (thirty pizzas? a bathtub full of pasta? an entire side of beef?) and keeping an eye out for two familiar silhouettes just in case. 

That’s not what he finds.

He hears Rory first, a low-voice grunt of “I ain’t waiting any longer”, and Barry veers off in the direction of it, an old abandoned hotel they’ve used before for meetings with other werewolves – they seem to be intent on recruiting into their pack early, which Barry approves of as a good stabilizing measure even while he knows it’ll only cause him trouble in the future. He thinks they’re planning on calling their pack the Rogues, and doesn’t that just _stink_ of supervillain trouble. 

Barry’s really just intending on checking in on them, a quick look to sear into his brain and keep him company late at night, the curve of Snart’s cheekbone or the arch of Rory’s collarbone.

Really.

They’re inside, though, so he speeds up just the slightest bit, makes his feet run light and silent, makes the world go blurry and soft enough for him to slip through the wooden walls and up a flight of stairs, through another wall until he’s peering into the room where he heard that voice, and then –

Barry stops. 

Stops dead. 

Rory is in the middle of the room, sprawled out in a comfortable looking armchair next to a side table. His head is rolled back onto the back of the chair, his eyes half-lidded and his expression calm. His soft-looking button-down shirt is fully unbuttoned and falling down at his sides, revealing his sturdy chest leading down to the soft roundness of his belly. His jeans are slung low, soft and tight around his thighs; his feet are bare and his toes knead into the lush carpet beneath.

His hands are at his waist, one dipped beneath his jeans, slowly moving in that instantly recognizable up and down movement, while the other one thumbs open the button on his jeans.

Barry swallows, his lips and throat suddenly dry as dust.

“Yeah,” Rory grunts, and he lifts his hips up in a little thrust, muscles straining under his jeans, and Barry should _really_ get out of here now. There’s doing a quick check-in and then there’s full on invasion of privacy, and Barry’s pretty sure he’s officially crossed the line into creepy now. 

He should go.

In – just a second. 

Maybe a few seconds. 

And then a few seconds more, because Rory’s dragging his zipper down centimeter by painful centimeter, and if Barry waits just a little longer, he’s going to get an eyeful and, lord, that’ll be more than enough to color a _week’s_ worth of wet dreams. 

He should really go.

“You stay right where you are,” Snart drawls, and Barry freezes again.

But no, Snart’s talking to Rory, not to Barry; he can’t see Barry, hidden as he is in the next room over – an old walk-in closet, by the looks of it, small and dusty. He can only see what’s happening because the door to the closet’s slightly ajar, but it’s dark in here and light out there; they won’t be able to spot him.

“Wasn’t planning on going nowhere,” Rory replies, the hand in his pants moving faster, and then he’s wiggling those too-tight jeans down his hips and _fuck_ , Barry can see it; Rory’s cock curving up, red and wanting, his hand wrapped around it. “You gonna come lend me a hand?”

He laughs, amused at his own pun.

“We only have a little time before we need to meet with the Louvou pack’s envoys,” Snart says, and he sounds almost unaffected. 

Almost.

He’s just a little breathier than normal, his voice dropped half an octave down, a little coarser, a little less calm, a little less composed.

Barry has to press his palm to try to calm his cock, which has most definitely taken an interest in the proceedings. 

“All the more reason,” Rory growls, his lips curling into a smirk.

Snart walks across the room, coming into view. He’s dressed in that parka of his, blue with the fuzzy hood, but underneath he’s got on an oversized sweater, dark burgundy red, that looks like it’s probably Rory’s size. Probably is Rory’s, for that matter. Under that, Snart’s wearing black pants, loose sweatpants, and he’s barefoot, too. 

Barry crouches down for a better angle. 

“Is that so?” Snart drawls, pulling off the parka, tossing it off to the side as he goes, and somehow the get-up, all oversized and soft, makes him look younger, softer, but no one would look at that smirk and think of anything less than danger. “And why’s that?”

“You’re _my_ mate,” Rory says, his eyes fixed on Snart. “Maybe I wanna remind ‘em of that fact.”

“Maybe you’re just horny,” Snart shoots back.

“Maybe,” Rory concedes, utterly shameless, spreading his legs so Snart – and, unknown to him, Barry – can get a better look at what’s between his legs. His cock is thick, fitting comfortably in his broad palm; his other hand he’s moved further down, cupping his heavy balls that Barry can see tightening up even from his vantage point. “Don’t see why we can’t solve both problems.”

Snart’s breath hitches, just a little, but then he’s back to being cool and unperturbed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, boss,” Rory says, his voice low and throaty. “Yeah, I’d like that. C’mon, boss. Gimme some love.”

Snart snorts at that. “You’re insatiable,” he says, but his voice doesn’t quite have the proper edge of real disdain. “I suppose I’ve made it my job to take care of you, though, haven’t I?”

Rory’s lips curl back, his teeth bared in a smile, his eyes bright with excitement. “That a yes?”

Snart sighs, all put-upon, the long-suffering mate with all of a wolf’s demands, but there’s a fission of excitement in his voice when he warns Rory, “We’ll be playing by my rules.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Rory says, widening his legs just a little bit more.

Snart stalks over to where Rory’s standing, the muscles in his back and legs shifting as he walks, the hints of liasons past still remembered, and Rory reaches out a hand to place on his hip, a soft touch from a man more accustomed to violence. 

“I’m gonna let you fuck me,” Snart says, and Rory’s cock jumps at the promise in his voice. Barry’s, too – the pressure of the suit is starting to hurt. “But you move when I say, get me?”

“Got you,” Rory says, then hisses when Snart pushes down the sweatpants. “Oh, yeah, _boss_ …”

Snart laughs, a low chuckle deep in his throat. 

“Still can’t believe you let me plug you,” Rory says, his hands slipping down around to cup Snart’s ass, cut over with scars the way the rest of Snart’s legs are, and Barry’s so busy staring at them, lean and long like a soccer player, that he very nearly misses the meaning of that sentence, and when he does he very nearly bashes his head back into the wall behind him, just to keep from making any noise.

Because it’s true and it’s the hottest thing Barry’s ever thought of: Snart’s got a plug in him, thick rubber holding him open, and Rory’s thick fingers slide to down to prod at it and Snart grunts, deep in his chest, and _fuck_ , Barry’s got the suit open now, his own cock hot in his hand. 

And then Rory’s reaching into the drawer in the side table next to him and pulling out a tube of lube, slicking himself up, eager as anything, and then he’s pulling Snart forward, wet fingers slipping back behind him. 

Snart lets his head roll back and he moans, long and low and satisfied, and Barry’s going to hear that sound in his dreams from now until eternity, he’s sure of it. It’s a matter of minutes before Snart is slinging a leg over Rory and sinking down onto him, inch by inch.

Barry’s hand is moving over his cock so fast that he might be causing sparks. 

“Fuck, yeah, _boss_ ,” Rory groans. “Fuck, you’re so good – how are you still this _tight_ –”

Barry’s biting his lip, his eyes fixed on them, and he’s forgotten that he ever planned to leave; he couldn’t leave now, not if you paid him, not for anything, not when his cock is so hard and they’re so goddamn beautiful.

Rory’s thrusting up into Snart, now, and Snart’s moving with him, rolling his hips in ways that make Rory whine, silent but for the grunts and the huffs of air that escape him when Rory puts it to him – good, long, hard thrusts that make his eyes go half-vacant with lust, just like Barry’d imagined in his dreams. One of Snart’s hands is braced against Rory’s shoulder, the other going down to thumb at Rory’s chest. 

Rory _growls_ when Snart’s fingers find his nipple, a bestial sound, and his eyes have taken on a distinct yellow cast.

That’s when Snart speaks. “No you don’t,” he says.

“What?” Rory asks. His face is red with exertion and slick with sweat already. 

“No,” Snart says again, but he’s still moving, his hips still grinding down. “No wolf, today.”

“But -!”

“My rules,” Snart reminds him. 

“But – _boss_ –” Rory whines. 

“My rules,” Snart says again, cold and merciless even as he’s grinding himself down on Rory’s thick cock and loving every minute of it. “We agreed.”

“I know, but –”

“I’ll let you mount me, later,” Snart says, casual as if he’s talking about the weather, but Rory’s struck dumb with lust and Barry’s not much better, mental images filling his brain. “I’ll let you go as wolf as you like, fangs and claws and eyes as yellow as a lightning strike; I’ll let you stretch out those muscles of yours, grow a head taller, let you toss me around like a rag doll for your pleasure – you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Rory pants. “Yeah – _yeah_ –”

“Even let you tie me,” Snart says, and Rory’s hips jerk involuntarily at that, his head lolling back, and Barry’s fingers go so tight that he’s almost in pain from sheer crazy lust. “Let you put that knot of yours in me, fill me up, get you going till you’re just coming and coming, swelling me up, driving me crazy the whole time, make me come just from the feel of it –”

“Boss – _please_ –”

“You can,” Snart says, sadistic and slow. “But only if you hold back now.” 

“I _can’t_ –”

“You can,” Snart says, and his voice is firm and commanding. “You can hold off.” And suddenly Barry sees where all that talk the wolves have about the importance of the will of the mate comes from, because he can’t imagine Rory defying Snart in this, in _anything_ ; and sure enough, Rory submits, groaning, and the way his fingers had been lengthening into claws is reversed, going back to blunt-tipped fingers; his eyes going back to brown. 

“Well done,” Snart says, and Barry has to stuff a hand into his mouth to keep from keening the way that Rory is. God, the _rush_ of it; Snart’s approval, Rory’s obedience, the strength, the power, the _beauty_ of them – what Barry would do for that, those words said almost casually, that feeling of being mastered by someone who deserved the phrase. 

Rory’s fingers are locked on Snart’s hips, hard enough to leave bruises, and he moves quicker, now, desperate. His face is twisted into a grimace as he tries so hard to be good, tries to keep from shifting despite wanting to so badly Barry can see the muscles on his face tensing for lack of it. 

Barry’s with him every second, willing him onwards, willing Rory to succeed even as Barry clenches his teeth on one gloved hand, his other hand moving now in time with their thrusts, his muffled moans of pleasure hidden in the grunts and slick sounds of the two in the other room. 

And through it all, Snart is cool and cold, a smirk curling his lips as he twists his hips and drives Rory higher and higher, drives him mad with lust. Snart’s fingers are quick and sure, playing with a nipple, stroking down Rory’s side; he presses his lips onto Rory’s neck, sucking loud hickies into his flesh, causing Rory to whimper and to whine and, finally, to break.

“Boss, please,” Rory begs. “Please, please – let me – _please_ -”

“What do you want?” Snart asks, in control. 

“I want to shift,” Rory says. “I want to _come_. Please.”

Snart runs his fingers up Rory’s neck. “Yeah?”

“ _Please_ –”

“You’ve been so good for me,” Snart purrs. “Not shifting, just like I told you to. So good.”

And there are tears at the corners of Rory’s eyes, the need driving him harder, trying so hard, trying –

“You can come now,” Snart says.

And then Rory’s _there_ , there with a roar that has nothing human in there, a bellow of satisfaction even as his hips arch up, even as Snart grunts with it, and Barry’s there with him, his hand speeding up, moving faster than lightning until he’s coming only a few seconds later, his come dripping through his fingers and onto the dusty wooden floor of the closet. 

Snart gets up, then, just as Rory melts back into the armchair, his whole body boneless, and Barry can see the pearly sheen in the inside of Snart’s thighs, can see Snart reach down and take himself in hand, bringing himself off hard and quick, the muscles of his ass clenching as he comes, spilling all over Rory’s bare chest. 

Barry’s cock gives a valiant twitch at the sight of it, but even Barry’s amped up metabolism doesn’t stand a chance so soon after coming that hard. 

And then the whole room is silent but for their harsh breaths, panting as they regain air and equilibrium. 

Barry’s own chest is heaving, pulling in much-needed air into his suddenly empty lungs.

He cannot _believe_ he just did that.

Fuck, what is _wrong_ with him?

Yes, okay, that was definitely one of the hottest, most sexually charged experiences in his life.

But it was totally wrong and he should feel ashamed of himself. He's sure he will. Any second now. 

He needs to leave.

Snart’s stepped away and pulled up his sweatpants again, suddenly back to being calm and collected and looking totally untouched, even though Barry knows his thighs are still slick and wet. 

“We still have to meet the Louvou pack,” he says to Rory, who’s still sunk in a hazy afterglow, smug smiles curling both their lips. “Go put yourself together.”

And Snart turns to walk out.

“Oh,” he adds as he leaves, “and tell our guest that he’s welcome to have a pillow for his knees next time. Wooden floors hurt after a while.”

Wait.

What guest?

They can’t mean – 

Barry abruptly notices that Rory’s looking straight at the closet where Barry’s hidden, and he’s breathing deep, through his nose, and suddenly Barry remembers those fine senses, those _werewolf_ senses, the ones that identify scents, scents like sweat and come and excitement, not to mention hearing fine enough to hear a heartbeat, much less choked-off moans and grunt from less than ten feet away.

And then Rory smirks, that same smirk he’d had in Saints and Sinners, the one that made Barry burn with humiliation. Barry feels that same burn now, feels his face flush bright red, feels his cock start to go hard again with painful quickness, shame and humiliation twisting into lust –

Barry flees.

He’s never going to be able to look either of them in the face _ever again_. 

Of course, that shame doesn’t keep him from jerking off the second he gets home, not even bothering to take off his stained suit. If anything, it makes it even better, imagining them holding it over his head, mocking him, teasing him, Rory wrapping his arms around Snart and laughing at Barry for wanting what he can’t have, Snart’s eyes on Barry with that cold amusement; fuck, with thoughts like that in his head, he doesn’t even manage to last a second by regular human conceptions, spilling on his suit again. 

Barry goes to do laundry.

He tries not to think about it, tries to be good and moral and _not_ a creep, but he can’t stop the thoughts from creeping into his head.

He can’t keep himself from wondering when the next time will be.

The next time he’ll be able to watch them again, strong and beautiful, but this time, he’ll be watching knowing that they know he’s there, knowing that Rory’s smirk is meant for _him_ , his knowing look confirmed by every inhale, and Snart –

Snart’s voice, so commanding this time – maybe not so much next time. Maybe next time he’d be the one yielding, the one at mercy.

Maybe next time, Barry’s the one he’ll say did good. _Was_ good. Good for him. 

Good for _them_. 

Fuck.

Barry’s hooked. 

Yeah, Cisco’s just going to have to wait until the laundry’s done before getting his suit back. 

Sorry, Cisco.


End file.
